hat has happened since, was a just judgment on my wicked
heart--my wicked jealous heart. Oh, I am punished--awfully punished!
My husband lies in his blood--murdered for defending me, my kind, kind,
generous lord--and you were by, and you let him die, Henry!"

These words, uttered in the wildness of her grief, by one who was
ordinarily quiet, and spoke seldom except with a gentle smile and a
soothing tone, rung in Esmond's ear; and 'tis said that he repeated many
of them in the fever into which he now fell from his wound, and perhaps
from the emotion which such passionate, undeserved upbraidings caused
him. It seemed as if his very sacrifices and love for this lady and her
family were to turn to evil and reproach: as if his presence amongst
them was indeed a cause of grief, and the continuance of his life but
woe and bitterness to theirs. As the Lady Castlewood spoke bitterly,
rapidly, without a tear, he never offered a word of appeal or
remonstrance: but sat at the foot of his prison-bed, stricken only with
the more pain at thinking it was that soft and beloved hand which should
stab him so cruelly, and powerless against her fatal sorrow. Her words
as she spoke struck the chords of all his memory, and the whole of
his boyhood and youth passed within him; whilst this lady, so fond
and gentle but yesterday--this good angel whom he had loved and
worshipped--stood before him, pursuing him with keen words and aspect
malign.

"I wish I were in my lord's place," he groaned out. "It was not my fault
that I was not there, madam. But Fate is stronger than all of us, and
willed what has come to pass. It had been better for me to have died
when I had the illness."

"Yes, Henry," said she--and as she spoke she looked at him with a glance
that was at once so fond and so sad, that the young man, tossing up his
arms, wildly fell back, hiding his head in the coverlet of the bed. As
he turned he struck against the wall with his wounded hand, displacing
the ligature; and he felt the blood rushing again from the wound. He
remembered feeling a secret pleasure at the accident--and thinking,
"Suppose I were to end now, who would grieve for me?"

This hemorrhage, or the grief and despair in which the luckless young
man was at the time of the accident, must have brought on a deliquium
presently; for he had scarce any recollection afterwards, save of some
one, his mistress probably, seizing his hand--and then of the buzzing
noise in his ears